Howick address to Cambridge private car — Hendrik's family visit

The morning sun was already taking the edge off the dampness hanging in the air as I pulled up to the Howick address, March just starting to hint at its warmer days after a sluggish start. The house itself was modest, well-kept, with a small garden bursting with colour. Standing on the porch, ready to go, was Hendrik. He looked a little travel-worn already, though we hadn't even left the driveway. A man of perhaps fifty, with a kindly face etched with lines that spoke of both smiles and sun.

He had his single piece of luggage beside him, a sturdy black suitcase that looked like it had seen a fair few miles. He explained he was visiting his daughter, who had settled in Cambridge a few years back. He’d been in Auckland for a short while, staying with a friend, but the real reason for his trip was the planned family gathering down south. He was flying out again in a few weeks, but wanted to get settled into his daughter's place first. There was a slight lilt to his accent, and as we started the drive, he mentioned he’d been born and raised in the Free State, before eventually making his way to New Zealand.

We bypassed the city centre, opting for the Southern Motorway route that would take us towards the Bombay Hills. The traffic was steady, predictable for a Friday morning in autumn, a mix of commuters and holidaymakers heading further afield. Hendrik pointed out a few of the local birds flitting around the roadside trees, identifying them with a quiet knowledge that surprised me. He told me how different the birdlife was here compared to back home, richer in some ways, yet missing the bold colours of some of the African species he remembered.

As we cleared the peaks of the Bombay range and descended into the Waikato, the landscape opened up. The rolling green pastures, dotted with Friesian cows, were textbook New Zealand. Hendrik seemed to relax into the rhythm of the road. He spoke about his children, two daughters, both now living in New Zealand – the eldest in Auckland, the one he was heading to see in Cambridge. He’d lived a quiet life in South Africa, he said, working in agriculture for most of his career. He missed the wide-open spaces, though, and the distinct smell of the veld after rain. He seemed to appreciate the vastness of the Waikato plains, though he admitted it didn't quite have the same raw, untamed feel.

We stopped for a brief coffee break at a service station just off the Te Rapa highway bypass. He bought a flat white and a rather large slice of something sweet, a treat he declared he was allowing himself. As he stirred his coffee, he mentioned how strange it felt to be so far from familiar ground, yet how welcoming New Zealand had been. He admired the sense of community his daughters had found here, the ease with which they’d integrated. He wasn’t complaining, not at all, but he admitted there were times he felt a pang of nostalgia for the familiar banter and the strong sense of belonging he’d grown up with.

The final stretch into Cambridge was quiet. The sun was higher now, casting long shadows across the neat suburban streets. He thanked me warmly as he stepped out of the car, his suitcase held firm in his hand. He looked a little more settled, a little less anxious than when he’d started. He mentioned he was looking forward to a proper braai with his family that weekend. That was the one thing, he said, with a wry smile, that couldn’t quite be replicated, not with the same depth of flavour. It was a small thing, but for him, it seemed to carry a lot of weight. I watched him walk up the driveway of his daughter's house, a solitary figure, heading towards a new chapter in a familiar kind of gathering, under a different sky.